


Only the Wine

by hystericalwomannovelist



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalwomannovelist/pseuds/hystericalwomannovelist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a glass of wine too many, Mr Carson comes to Mrs Hughes' bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What the Butler Saw](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/15614) by DowntonIsMyLife. 



> The basic inspiration for this story largely came from the lovely Hatty who wrote "What the Butler Saw." I couldn't help but borrow the idea and take it in a different direction (with her permission, of course!). But I think there should be a whole genre of Wardrobe Fic, really. ;)
> 
> This is pretty much PWP and probably horribly OOC but ah well. I really couldn't resist.

They had had a bit more wine than usual, he had to admit that to himself to begin with. There was too little to leave for another day, and yet too much left to waste. Above her faint protest he poured her a third glass of wine, almost full, and emptied the bottle in his own. He gave her a devilish sort of smile as he did so; she returned it in a sideways fashion, her eyes sly and half-closed. They drank slowly, savoring, laughing a bit too loud. It was a bit more than usual, but they were entitled to certain small indulgences. And they claimed so few.

That was how he had come to find himself at the door to the female servants' rooms. Nothing else short of an emergency would have brought him there. He was surprised, in fact, that this could; laughed lightly to himself as he looked down at the soft fabric he held in his hand. She had left her shawl behind and he intended to return to her. His motives were innocent, noble, really. It could wait until tomorrow, he allowed, but she might just as well have it back tonight. There was no harm in it.

He had said goodnight after the third glass, rather against his will. She had frowned, bit her lip, paused a long moment before she said it herself. She stood from her chair and brushed past him on her way out, her hip more than grazing his shoulder as she passed. And she had left behind the shawl. She was not a forgetful woman. Both her touch and the lost article might have been attributed to the wine but they had not had as much as all that. He looked at it in a hazy, unconcerned kind of confusion when he noticed it. He might return it to her tomorrow, he had thought. Or he might, perhaps, take it as a sign that she had been as unwilling to say goodnight as he.

He would follow her, then, just catch up to her quickly, return the shawl, see her smile one last time, perhaps be rewarded with one of her light touches to his forearm in thanks. And then it would really be goodnight. And he could retire to his lonely room a bit happier, the strange dull ache of her leaving might be displaced with that one last smile.

That was how he had come to find himself at this door, this frankly forbidden door, with purely virtuous motives. He thought he would find her long before he reached this door; she had only left a minute before he saw the thing. He expected to catch up to her on the stairs but she must have come up straightaway, she must have hurried. So he stood, deciding, with his hand on the knob that marked the line between what was strictly proper and what could be mistaken for improper. Funny, he thought to himself vaguely, propriety and the appearance of propriety were often in conflict. It often fell to him as the butler, as protector of these halls, to sacrifice what was correct for what _appeared_ to be correct. He was not troubled by this; it was his role in the workings of this great system, it was _right_. But now he found himself standing here trying to do what was actually good and fine although to any observer it would _appear_ very, very improper.

He could not stand there, deciding, forever. If he was walking through that door, he knew, he had better do it quickly, decisively, look as if he were entirely within his rights to do so if he happened to be discovered. It would not do to be seen hesitating guiltily. There was nothing to feel guilty about, after all.

He looked once over his shoulder, found nothing. Tested the knob, was surprised to find it not yet locked. Entered. Closed the door behind him.

He knew which was her room, mercifully nearest the door. He had been there, years since and only once or twice, by day, when invited, when it was unquestionably quite proper—almost unquestionably, but they were above question, which amounted to the same thing. He laid an ear against her door, listened, heard nothing. He rapped on the door twice, lightly, with a knuckle, listened again, had no reply. 

He should let it go there, some small voice inside him told him, it was lucky if she did not answer, he should turn and go now. But the larger voice, the larger voice that had in fact had a bit too much to drink, tried a second knob with uncertain fingers, paused only a moment, turned it, and slipped inside.

She was not there. He frowned, confused. He did not know how he could have missed her on the way upstairs. He knew he should leave now, really should leave now and only pray that she never discover he had been there. It was wrong and stupid of him to come, and if she found him there now, she would be angry. It occurred to him for the first time that even if she had been here, she might have been angry. He never knew when to start and when to stop with her, but all at once it occurred to him that tonight, the time to stop would have been well before that first door. Would have been well before that third glass, if he was honest.

He thought she would be angry but wondered vaguely if it would be because it was very wrong of him to come, or because she truly would not want him there. If it were the latter, then _mea culpa_ , he thought, he would beg her forgiveness while never forgiving himself for the intrusion. But if by chance it were merely the former, then was it not actually wrong that it should be thought wrong? They were entitled to some indulgences, he reminded himself again. And they hardly ever claimed what little they could.

This, being here, this he knew he was not entitled to. He knew that, despite his rationalizations. This was crossing every boundary of propriety but he was here now, there was no taking it back, and if she hadn't come here straightaway she must have been called away on some task that needed her immediate attention. It would take her a few minutes at least, in all likelihood. It couldn't make the situation materially worse to stay just a few moments longer, surely.

He looked about but did not touch anything. The room was sparely furnished as his was, no-nonsense in its adornments. She was not one to keep meaningless knicknacks about. She kept her space tidy, impeccably tidy, as he would have guessed. Most of her personal items, all of her books and correspondence and certainly all of her work things were kept downstairs. The room was purely utilitarian, for sleeping and dressing. It had never quite occurred to him before but that was how they lived their lives, moving about one another in their shared spaces downstairs, parting only for a few hours to sleep. He saw her nightdress laid out across the back of the vanity chair, could not resist touching this one thing, his fingertips lightly feathering over the soft material that would soon touch her otherwise bare skin. 

A noise outside the door startled him. He dropped the shawl, fumbled to pick it up, clutched it to his chest. He had almost forgotten why he came in the first place. It was her voice, calling to someone down the hall, saying goodnight to one of the maids, he suspected. She would be inside in a moment and she would find him there rifling through her things, holding an article of her clothing and she would not understand this, she would be furious and she would be right to be. He had been stupid and he had had too much wine. He could not depend upon the drink having had enough of an effect upon her for her to find this situation amusing. 

The knob was turning. She would find him.

He didn't really think about it, didn't have time or the sense to. He rushed to her wardrobe, stepped in, closed the door behind him. There was barely enough room for him to stand, stooped and cramped, among the soft, fine things which smelled of her. A moment later, the door to her room opened and closed. She was inside, and he was trapped.

The instant he'd done it he knew he had made the worse of two unpleasant choices. To hide instead of facing her honestly was terrible and stupid and wrong. She was likely to need something in here, and there was no way to conceal his hulking frame behind her coats and dresses. She would find him and she would be beyond furious—he wasn't sure quite how she would react, truthfully, but he was sure he would not be able to bear the force of it and after she was through with him she would find it unforgivable. It _was _unforgivable.__

__He heard the click of her heels, slightly uneven as she moved across the room. She was humming, faintly, a melody he could not quite make out, but the sound of it began to soothe him, stop him from worrying. He heard a strange thumping noise followed by the musical sound of her laughter—that rare, beautiful sound—and he realized she must still be a touch intoxicated herself. He smiled, leaned his forehead against the cool wooden door. He felt strangely certain now, she would not come to the wardrobe. She would put on her nightdress and go straight to bed; it was quite late, she was drunk and she was happy._ _

__He heard little faint noises, tried to make out what they were. He did not know, he realized, the routines a woman went through while preparing herself for bed. Her humming stopped and started at intervals. When he heard no noises at all his mind filled in the gaps. She would be unpinning her hair, her long, soft hair he had never seen falling loose around her shoulders. Perhaps she would be gathering it into a braid; he wondered what she did with all that hair. He no longer heard the click of her heels; she had slipped out of her shoes at some point, what he imagined were small, pretty feet were now padding across the floor, now perhaps crossed under her dressing table chair as she brushed her hair. Very, very faintly, unless he was imagining it, he heard the rustle of fabric, thought of her hands working deftly at the fastenings of her dress. Perhaps he had imagined it. He was, indeed, imagining the dress falling from her shoulders, her waist, to her feet, exposing soft skin, beautiful curves._ _

__He tried—not hard, but he tried—to stop his mind from wandering this way but closing his eyes made no difference in the dark wardrobe, and he could not close his ears from hearing her lovely little noises or his nose from smelling that clean, vaguely floral scent of her all around him. These were not strictly new thoughts, he admitted to himself; all that was new was the proximity of their inspiration, the unprecedented sensory detail. He could not help but to listen, to breathe in. _That scent._ He would know that scent anywhere, had stood close enough to her for so many years he knew it better than his own, but never had he been so surrounded by it, something clean and floral mixed with something faint and earthy that must have come from her skin itself. Intoxicating might be the word for it, if he weren't already in such a state. _ _

__He was aware then that the light had gone out. All danger was past. He could hear the bedsprings depress and release as she slid into bed, her strong bare arms pulling sheets around her, her legs kicking against the covers until she was comfortable, he could not help but imagine. She was humming again, trailing off into another inexplicable fit of laughter, starting somewhere deep in the back of her throat. That precise sort of laugh he was quite certain he had never heard her make before._ _

__He would just stand there until he was sure she was asleep, then slip quietly out, and there would be no harm done. She would not know, and he would not have done anything truly wrong. He would not so much as look at her over his shoulder as he went. Would not pause to see her fine strong profile at rest, or the beautiful soft skin of her arm draped over the curve of her hip, or the way her dress might pull away from her body unpredictably as she moved in the night, exposing more skin in other places. He would not see that, would not learn what she did with her hair even, although it was an innocent enough thing to wonder. He would simply go and no harm would come from it; he would know nothing of what she did in sleep, nor would she know what the thought of everything he did not know would lead him to do when he was safely back in his own bed._ _

__For now, he was sure she was not asleep. He did not expect to find that she snored, but he thought he would be able to tell by her breathing. It was so quiet in her room now and he could hear her intake and exhale of breath now and then; it was not the deep, slow sort of breathing one found in sleep. If anything, her it was becoming gradually faster now, sharper, irregular._ _

__He wondered for a moment if she was all right, if she was not well, sick from drink. But they had not had so much as all that. Already his senses were coming back to him. It might take her a bit longer to recover but he doubted she was ill with it. And she did not sound _ill_ exactly. She let out a long breath then, almost like a sigh. It _was_ a sigh, unmistakably a sigh when it came again, slightly louder, perhaps a minute later._ _

__He understood on some unconscious level long before his mind allowed him to fully acknowledge the truth. He closed his eyes again, pointlessly there in the dark, and tried to think of other things. The dinner schedule for the following week, the contents of the wine cellar, polishing the silver. Another sigh from just beyond the door and his mind too easily transposed a silver serving bowl for the curve of a hip, the hard metal turning into warm flesh under his hand with so little provocation. He rubbed his eyes between thumb and forefinger, forcing his thoughts back to working out his plans for the following day, the routine tasks that would follow this stupid folly and precede the next night of wine shared with her when he would want to repeat it all again. Perhaps, he thought, they ought to have tea._ _

__The bedsprings creaked again, in time with a longer sigh and he could not deny any longer what it all meant, or the effect the very thought of it was having on him. He wrung the shawl violently between his strong hands. He did not know exactly how and what she was doing there on the other side of the door but he knew, he could not pretend she was not— _she was touching herself_. His skin was flushed and hot as the thought went through his mind in so many words: she was touching herself for pleasure._ _

__She touched herself as he did— _not quite the same, he was not sure quite how_ —but to the same end as he did, and possibly with the same inspiration. Once he had allowed himself to consider it he could not stop his mind from racing; did she do so often, and was it a mere mechanical release for her? Or did she do this after leaving him for the night, frustrated and lonely, with him on her mind just as he thought of her? He could only barely admit to himself that he did think of her this way, improperly even if his thoughts were quite worshipful, his admiration for her pure and good, but he had never for a moment considered that she might— And tonight, could it possibly be that she felt the same electricity in their conversation that he had, had been just as unwilling to say goodnight, had quite intentionally brushed him with her hip that way as she left? _ _

__He was finding excuses, he told himself, grasping at straws to allay his guilt for the thoughts he entertained about her, to head off the guilt that would torment him probably forever for being here now. Even if she did think of him this way, and he doubted very much that she did, it would not excuse his presence here, would never make right the fact that he was listening intently now for her soft little noises and feeling his pants grow ever more constricting as he anticipated them, then heard them._ _

__Her breathing came heavier and faster and the bed creaked at regular intervals now and he could not stop his mind from going where it might no matter how hard he tried and in truth he was not, now, trying very hard to stop it. He wondered again just how she did it to herself, what sort of touch made her sigh so beautifully that way, what she did to draw it out as she must be doing, so differently from most of his own sessions which were quick and hard most of the time. He couldn't help but imagine her lying on her back, her thin nightgown pulled up to her waist, the fingers of one hand exploring there while her other—what? Covered her mouth? No, she was not stifling anything now. Pulled at her hair, touched other places on her body, perhaps she used both hands—? He was not shocked by her so much as by the fact that he had never truly considered it before, that she would—that women did—that she might need every bit as much as he did..._ _

__Then there was a loud creak of the bedsprings and a groan, a frustrated groan, as if she had abruptly changed position, desperate now and unable to get what she wanted. He ran his hands through his own hair, then crossed his arms across his broad chest. He would not, under any circumstances, do what he most desired to do and let his own hands wander, not like this, no, though he knew that later, when he was alone, there would be no stopping it no matter how terrible he felt about the whole matter. No, that was not what he most desired to do, but _that_ was incomprehensible to him, nothing on heaven or earth could make him do that, no temptation would be strong enough to make him go to her now and offer himself to her although he could picture it, did picture it over and over, going to her and taking the place of her hand, his thoughts so much more vivid with her nearness and the sounds she made, not altogether like what he had imagined, so beautiful but—he clenched his hands into fists—he would not do any of those things he imagined for the world._ _

__He heard a strangled, choking sound, so different again from the soft lovely sounds he had begun to grow accustomed to that it honestly scared him, and only for that reason—he reassured himself, _only for that reason_ —did he push the door of the wardrobe open just a crack. He was not ever going to look but it had sounded so painful, almost inhuman, that he had to be sure she was all right. He was not immediately convinced she was. He saw through the small opening that she was faced away from him on her side, her shoulders turned forward, heaving strangely. It took him a minute to realize that they were moving at a steady rhythm, that she was still trying to find her release, that it had been a cry of frustration, a cry of futility. He watched her, transfixed now, only dully aware of his own growing need because it was so beautiful and painful to see her this way, something in the curve of her shoulders telling him this was no longer strictly enjoyable for her._ _

__He watched as the movement of her shoulders became more rapid, stronger, until eventually her whole body moved in time with her thrusts, her head buried deep into the pillow as she pushed harder and harder, now almost violently, straining for and not finding the release she sought. That the sight of her like this was immensely erotic he could not pretend otherwise, but he began to feel an overwhelming sadness for her, at her obvious frustration, the clear knowledge that she was not getting what she needed to find that contentment—and that she _needed_ , she _needed_ terribly._ _

__Suddenly she whipped herself over onto her back, a gesture of giving up, giving in to something as she pounded the mattress with a furious balled fist. And she slowed, slowed to a stop. She pushed the straps of her nightgown, which had fallen down her arms, back up to her shoulders. She pulled the bottom of it back below her waist, smoothing the fabric over her body as she went. She sighed again, a resigned, unhappy sigh, but gradually as she closed her eyes she conjured a smile again, her hands resting at her hips. She breathed slowly, freely for several quiet moments before her hands came to her neck, stroking her skin as she leaned her head back into her pillow. Her hands traveled down to her collarbone, across her shoulders, slowly, her fingers slipping under the fabric of her nightgown and pulling it down again. She was undressing herself slowly, sensually. All the while her eyes remained closed and he realized she was imagining something, something she had not allowed herself to before, something she perhaps had not wanted to at all but that she knew might work._ _

__Her hips rocked as her hands pulled the gown down, stopping just short of exposing her breasts before she let her hands wander again, fingertips hesitating momentarily before slowly wandering below the fabric, just below where his eyes could see. Her smile deepened as her hands roamed over herself, her palms feeling the fullness of her breasts, her fingers teasing at her nipples. He could not help but imagine just what that felt like himself._ _

__She sighed again, the happy soft sigh returned, slowly shaking her head from side to side as she whispered, so quietly, what he thought sounded like, “Yes, love, just there.”_ _

__She was imagining someone there with her, he understood finally, she was imagining—oh god, was she imagining—_ _

__She threw her head back again, exposing the lovely long lines of her neck as her hands emerged from under the thin fabric again to trace their way down her sides very slowly, down to the hem of her nightgown where it rested at her thighs. She played with the lace there, her knuckles grazing the inside of her things lightly._ _

__“Mr Carson...”_ _

__He was terrified, confused for a moment, sure he had been found out, she must have seen him through the small gap in the wardrobe doors but the next moment he realized, fully realized, that she was mentally substituting his hands there for her own, that she was actually imagining his hands pushing the hem of her nightgown slowly up, exposing her thighs, her hips, her sex. She wanted it to be his hands and—suddenly awareness of his own need came surging back to him— _he_ wanted it to be his hands, too._ _

__The fingers of one hand slid between her legs again, parting the soft folds of skin there, stroking around her entrance but stopping just short, he thought. He was not sure if she was now picturing his hands there, his cock, or his mouth, oh god— He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands; he couldn't stop his thoughts now but he was _not_ , he swore to himself he _would not_ touch himself now while she touched herself, without her knowledge, it would be the worst sort of violation—or perhaps more accurately it would be the worst, most truthful representation of the way they had moved about one another for years now, feeling the same things but never once sharing it, denying themselves a real connection. He swore he would not give in to his pulsing desire but unintentionally his bulging front brushed against the door and it was all he could do not to cry out himself, the momentary pressure was so deliciously painful._ _

__But her hands were on her face now, roughly scrubbing her skin from her temples to her neck and she was shaking her head back and forth, biting her lip as if to hold back a sob. His blood ran cold as he realized the truth was not only that she did think of him, and that she could not find release without thinking of him, but that all the same she did not _want_ to think of him. He realized it was the same for her as it was for him and his heart broke for her. She did feel just as he did. And he swore he wouldn't, he wouldn't for the world, but _for her_ he wanted to go to her, take her pain away and make her feel loved as her hand could never do, as the thought of him could never do, as painfully wanting him every day could most certainly never do, with no resolution or acknowledgment though she _must know_ he wanted her painfully too; _for her_ he wanted to now— and did, without giving it a moment's real thought, he did open the wardrobe door, step out, and go to her._ _

__He was halfway to the bed before she saw him, and she sat up like a shot, gathering the sheet about her, struggling to right her nightgown again. “How—where—”_ _

__She was upset, but he was not certain whether it was with anger, fear, or confusion—probably, it was all, probably he would never be forgiven for this but she was in pain and he had to try._ _

__He raised his hands in a gesture of contrition, palms up, as he continued to approach, more slowly now, uncertain, stopping well short of her bed. He would not come any nearer without an invitation; he had crossed too many boundaries tonight already. “I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes, I know I shouldn't be here.”_ _

__“Why—how long—?” she continued, increasingly agitated, her voice rising, that Scottish lilt strengthening as it did only when she was upset. He hated to upset her even as he recognized the lovely sound it made._ _

__“If you tell me to go, I will go, but if you want me to stay—”_ _

__“The whole time?” Anger, her eyes were definitely flashing with anger now. “Have you been here the whole time?”_ _

__“I'm sorry—I just came to return your shawl—I never meant...” He trailed off uselessly, shook his head, looking down at the soft garment he still clenched in his hand. “I may have had too much to drink, Mrs Hughes. I never would have...”_ _

__“I know, you never would have.” Her voice was calmer now, bitter._ _

__He understood her meaning, for once understood her quite plainly, and impossible as it was to explain himself he couldn't let her go on thinking she was alone in this. “I don't mean I never _wanted_ to. I _always_ want to.”_ _

__She studied his face for long, uncertain moments. He stood there under her hard gaze, bearing it as well as he could, waiting for her assessment, ready to accept whatever judgment she pronounced. Finally she shook her head, smiled ruefully. Her grip on the bedsheets relaxed a bit. “I may have had too much to drink, too. I—” She laughed suddenly, a full laugh that made her shoulders convulse. “I went to your room tonight, you see, but I lost my nerve when you didn't come right away.”_ _

__He wanted to laugh with her, in wonder that it should be so, that in their own halting way they had both tried to take a rather large leap that night and both had failed utterly—and to laugh to think that all the same, they were still here. Had they really had as much wine as all that? Or had it been the conversation— _them_? He wanted to laugh with her but he knew he still didn't have the right. “Please, forgive me, although I'll understand if you can never—”_ _

__She stopped laughing, looked up at him, shook her head wearily. Her eyes darted away from making direct contact with his, landed on his still-bulging pants. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing uselessly to hide but there was no place to hide, not now._ _

__“Tell me—” his voice came choked, ragged. “Just tell me if you want me to stay or to leave.”_ _

__She let go of the sheet, reached out for him with both hands. He walked forward, reaching out for her too, not hesitating for a moment, but just short of their fingers touching she dropped her hands, went for his waist instead, drawing her toward him with her hands on his hips. He groaned at her light contact, at her nearness now, at the smell of her, not just the lingering smell but her living breathing scent mixed with something new to him—her wetness, her need. She pulled him closer until he stood before her and she buried her head against his hipbone, his once again throbbing cock so close to her cheek._ _

__She rested that way for a long, strange minute, making no move to proceed or retreat, while he stood there, lightly stroking her hair and her shoulders, waiting for some sign, only wanting to give her what she wanted, waiting to be told. Finally she clutched at the waistline of his pants, the bottom of his vest, her fingers moving violently now over all of this material he stood there wearing, this uniform that kept him from her now, as ever._ _

__“Take it off,” she said roughly, pushing him back slightly as she fell back onto the bed, reclining on her elbows. Now she would watch. If this was his punishment he would gladly accept it, this and anything else she saw fit to mete out, he would pay for his sins for the rest of his days, offer his penance up to this goddess for all his crimes, all his failings, everything he had not done to give her what she needed. She watched as he faithfully removed every stitch: coat, tie, waistcoat, collar and shirt, one by one dropping to the floor. He stepped out of his shoes, removed his socks, leaving his trousers for last and watching her watch him as his hands worked at the fastenings, hesitating as he tried to read her, finding her face impassive except for the slight press of teeth on her lower lip. With an uncertain intake of breath he let the pants fall, pool around his feet. He stepped out of them. He stood before her in his undershirt and shorts, waiting for further instruction, his desire for her unmistakable._ _

__She sat up again slowly, her face still unreadable; she was not, he didn't think, necessarily enjoying tormenting him. He thought perhaps she only needed him to be as naked as she was, naked and raw and powerless. She reached out to him again, pulled him down, down to sit next to her on the edge of the bed._ _

__He sat next to her, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, struggling to find the words to tell her what she needed to know, what he needed her to know. He stammered it out, making a mess of it as he knew he always did, but he tried to tell her: “Anything I saw, you know, it's the same for me, I can only—”_ _

__Uncertainly, she reached out, stilling his words as her fingertips lightly grazed his chest over his undershirt. The contact made her shiver, but she went on, with firmer motions, then her whole hand moving over him. She leaned her head on his shoulder, snuggling her cheek against his bare skin. He put his arm around her, his large hand coming to rest on her hip, caressing her there with short strokes, holding her securely. After several long minutes just holding one another this way she finally looked up, found her lips there at the base of his strong neck, kissed him there lightly. He squeezed her hip encouragingly and she continued her kisses, tracing up his neck to his jawline, lingering there, slowly making her way to his chin. She let her hand drop as she continued her kisses, sliding underneath his shirt and touching him directly, moving over his skin and the soft hairs she found there. With his free hand he stroked her hair lightly, luxuriating in the feel of it, the softness and the wildness of it from her activities before, doing nothing to press her face closer to his although he wanted it desperately, her kiss on his lips._ _

__Soon enough, emboldened by these little explorations, she looked up, pulled his face down with one gentle hand on his cheek, her upper lip at first catching awkwardly on his lower, both smiling as they made the corrections necessary to kiss one another properly. Little sighs issued from both their mouths as they learned the reality of what they had each, separately, imagined for years. Lips and tongues explored, slowly at first, reveling in all this new sensory information, taste and touch and the sounds both elicited, gradually becoming more fervent, then frantic, and silently they both agreed this awkward sideways position on the edge of her bed would no longer do._ _

__She pulled away, studied him as she tried to catch her breath, saw what she needed to see. She disentangled herself from his embrace, holding onto the hand that had held her. She scooted backwards onto the bed, sinking down into the mattress just as she did before when she was alone, now guiding him where she wanted him, her hands at his hips positioning him to hover over her, taking his undershirt off as her hands proceeded up his body. He leaned down to kiss her again, deep, needy kisses, his bare chest brushing hers where only a thin layer still separated them. She wriggled her hips until she was directly beneath him, opened her legs to him, drawing her knees up around his body. Suddenly this was all going more quickly than he ever imagined it would with her but there was no slowing this now, not after how hard she had tried to come before and how hard he had tried not to and so he did not resist when she angled her pelvis up against his, brushing against his swollen cock. Unable to stand it a moment more, he reached down to pull his shorts from his waist and she helped as best she could while pinned that way, catching them with her toes and helping pull them down. He caught the hem of her nightgown where it bunched at her thighs just as she had done and slowly worked it upward, his hands taking the time to roam over her skin as he pushed it up over her hips, over her stomach and breasts, lifted it over her shoulders and off, letting it drop to the floor._ _

__He pressed his naked body against hers now, skin finally meeting skin, both of their arms tightly embracing the other to try to pull their bodies closer, impossibly closer. She pressed her pelvis against him again and now he could feel her wetness sliding against him, her warmth, her softness, and when she released the pressure this time he followed her down, down, his hips pressing hard against hers, pressing her down against the mattress. She moaned softly in appreciation, in anticipation, her hands at his hips again pressing him closer still, her thighs like a vise around him. She clenched down, crossing her ankles over his ass for leverage and pushed up against him again._ _

__Her sureness about what she wanted, needed, drove him crazy, and he kissed her hot and hard as he pressed her against the mattress, eliciting little cries he never wanted to stop. She clutched at his shoulders, ran her hands up and down his back, continued pushing at him from below, insistent, begging almost, no mistaking what for. He reached down, positioned himself at her entrance, felt her instinctively adjust her hips to take him and then he was inside, filling her, surrounded by her, both of them crying out again at the fullness and realness of the contact denied to them for so long. He pushed slowly deeper and deeper, felt her adjust again, somehow drawing him in deeper still until he could go no further and then he thrust, hard, against her. She shuddered and cried out in response. He slowly withdrew partway and plunged back into her, again bucking hard against her once he was fully inside, pulled out, repeated the process with gradually increasing speed. He pumped her hard and slow this way over and over until he could not stand it anymore, did not think she could either from the responses he was learning to interpret, this beautiful new language she spoke only for him, and then he increased his pace, found her movements matching him even as they both became increasingly erratic, rocking together, never breaking this embrace, it was all they needed for now, at least, this time. She raised her knees up higher, her ankles still crossed around him, finding just the right angle where he could touch that spot, just there, where her hands had become useless for want of him but he was here now, here, having her, hard, fast, driving into her as she never imagined he would but this was infinitely better than her dreams, he filled her so perfectly compared to her own hands, he was warm and strong and wanting her just the same. It would be over quickly, that was the spot, just there, and he was unrelenting now and she was all out of sync but still she bucked against him wildly, drawing him hard against her just where she needed it when he pounded into her and suddenly she was screaming as it all poured over her, these minutes of touch, these hours of need, these years of want and ache and love._ _

__His release came as a roar in her ear moments later and then after their orgasms subsided he continued to move inside her, gentle, shallow pulses as they stroked and kissed one another, softly guiding one another back from a very high height to the ground. He brushed her hair away from her face as he withdrew from her finally, establishing and refusing to break eye contact with her now, as a promise somehow that this was real and irrevocable, that nothing that came tomorrow could untie this knot they had made with their bodies, so that she could not forget that it was really him, and he could not forget that it was really her. For too long they had lived by unfulfilled dreams alone and whatever happened, that was over, he promised her silently, his eyes dark and earnest, his heavy brows raised. She did not look away; she nodded and smiled. He thought she understood._ _

__He leaned over her, over the side of the bed and picked up her shawl from the floor where he had dropped it, smiling as he arranged it around her shoulders, tracing the skin of her arms and breasts at its edges. She took his hands in hers, clasping them between their bodies, one foot beneath the covers playing lightly on his calf._ _

__“Did you really come here just to return this?”_ _

__“I thought I did. At any rate, I'm sure it never crossed my mind that _this_ would happen.” He kissed the tip of her nose lightly. “Did you really go to my room?”_ _

__She laughed, closing her eyes, the skin around them crinkling beautifully as she did so. “I did, only for a moment before I came to my senses. I suppose I did think of this, for an instant, before it terrified me and I ran off.”_ _

__He chuckled, a sort of rumbling response she felt through their joined fingers more than she heard. “We had quite a lot of wine. But it wasn't only the wine. I'm not drunk now. Are you?” He kissed her high, soft cheek now, smiling against it, she felt more than saw._ _

__“No, I'm not drunk now. And no, it wasn't only the wine.” She sighed happily, snaking her arms around his torso. “There was something that made you pour the last glass, and something that made me accept.”_ _

__“What was that, I wonder?” he asked lightheartedly, his words muffled as he nuzzled her neck now with his lips and nose._ _

___Need. Want. Ache. Love._ _ _

__“I wonder,” she laughed, throwing her leg over his hip and drawing him nearer again._ _


End file.
